“Your dress is poorly designed.”
We laughed until people started staring at us.
And that was the best part of the night.
Nothing dramatic happened.
Nobody stopped the music.
Nobody applauded us.
Nobody treated our dance as an extraordinary achievement.
We were just two eighteen-year-olds at the prom, awkwardly dancing together.
Just as we promised when we were six years old.
Then, Mom picked us up.
My feet hurt, so Noah carried my heels for me.
He was hot, so I brought him my jacket.
When we got to the car, he opened the door for me.
Then I leaned over the seat and opened the door for him.
Mom was silently watching us in the rearview mirror.
For years, she had observed our friendship and assumed that one person should be taking care of the other.
That night, he finally understood.
Nobody was rescuing anybody.
Nobody stayed because of guilt.
Nobody was fulfilling any obligation.
Noah and I, at the age of six, had simply discovered something that some adults spend their entire lives trying to understand.
When you truly care about someone, you stay.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky enough,
**They’re staying too.**
